


A Brighter Dawn

by MsWikit



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Azor Ahai, Bittersweet Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Ending Fix, Eventual Sex, Game of Thrones Spoilers, Multi, Valonqar Prophecy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-27
Updated: 2019-05-27
Packaged: 2020-03-20 11:23:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18991681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MsWikit/pseuds/MsWikit
Summary: The dead have risen and the Long Night has begun.When Winterfell falls, the living begin a mad dash towards the south. Their frenzied escape puts the most powerful players in Westeros on a direct collision course with destiny and each other.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> How Game of Thrones should have ended feat. all my garbage ships. 
> 
> Enjoy.

Tyrion

The silence echoed through the crypts. A millennium of stone-faced Starks gazed on them without a hint of emotion. No fear, no sympathy, no anger. Ned Stark himself loomed over him, head slightly bowed, hands resting on the pommel of his sword. It had been years since Tyrion had first ridden north. Back then his only cares were finding out what northern girls tasted like and pissing off the edge of the world. Had things ever been that simple?

“This is the worst part,” Sansa said, breaking the oppressive silence. Her voice was no more than a whisper. She fingered the handle of the dagger in her lap. “The waiting.”

“Was this what it was like? Before the Battle of the Blackwater?” he asked. He hadn’t thought of what it was like for the women and children below. Of the ladies and the little lords cowering in the shadows of the Red Keep, wondering if they would survive the night. Tyrion thought nothing could be more terrifying than standing on the battlements and seeing the enemy massing for an assault. But at least then he had armor, a shield, and a sword. 

“No,” Sansa said. “This is worse.” She looked out at the huddled shapes of women, children, and elderly bundled in their furs. “Then, people talked. Cersei had a minstrel playing. There was wine. _Lots_ of wine.”

“Sounds like my sister,” Tyrion said. 

Sansa looked down at the dagger. She pulled it from its leather sheath. The dark dragonglass gleamed faintly in the low torchlight. “Now it’s just fear.”

Fear, silence, dark, cold. Every child heard the stories of the fabled Long Night. Few ever imagined it would come in their lifetime. Tyrion certainly didn’t. “I didn’t use to believe in any of this. Wights, dragons, prophecies, magic. I thought it was all just superstitious nonsense.” 

“And now?” Sansa slid the dagger back into its sheath. 

“Now? I’d very much like some wine.” Tyrion wanted to smile at the joke, but his face wouldn’t seem to obey. 

Sansa managed it, though. Her pale mouth twisted into a smirk. “I learned a great deal from your sister. Wine is one of the few topics I’m inclined to agree with her on.” She placed the knife in Tyrion’s lap. He looked up at her, confused, as she stood. 

“What are you doing?” he asked. 

“What I can.” Sansa walked further into the crypt, her dark dress flowing behind her. Where was the girl who wore soft pinks and blues, who trembled in fear, who was just a pawn in a game that she didn’t understand? Of course, Tyrion knew exactly what had happened to that girl. They’d killed her: Cersei and Littlefinger and Ramsay and a hundred others. They beat her down again and again. Yet each time Sansa Stark rose, a little bit wiser and a little bit stronger.

_You’ll outlive us all_ , he once told her. And he had been right. If any of them could find a way to live through this night, it would be her. 

“Let’s gather closer together,” Sansa said. Her voice echoed, startling many. She gestured for them to gather around her. “It’ll be warmer. No sense in huddling in the cold. Little ones in the middle, where it’s warmest. It’d be a shame to survive this only to die of consumption.”

They responded to her words like sheep to a cattle dog. They gathered together, pushing their children and nursing mothers to the center. Tyrion stood and wandered closer. 

“There now.” Sansa sat again, kneeling with her dress tucked beneath her knees, as though she were a friend about to share a secret. Tyrion sat beside her, unable to look away. She suddenly controlled the entire crypt. When had she learned to do this? When had she become a leader? “Shall we sing a hymn?”

It wasn’t a direct order, so they all just blinked at her, eyes wide with fear. 

Sansa was unaffected. She began to sing. _“Gentle Mother, font of Mercy, save our sons from war we pray.”_

He joined in best he could. No Lannister that he was aware of had ever been gifted with a good voice. But that was hardly his biggest problem now. _“Gentle Mother, stay their swords and stay the arrows. Let them know a better day.”_

Though many in the north held steadfastly to the old gods, there were a few who paid homage to the Seven. They joined in first with timid and wavering voices. The rest followed their lead, stumbling through the words and humming with the calming melody. Sansa sang louder than all of them combined. Her voice ricocheted off the dark stone and seemed to fill the entire crypt. It was beautiful. But of course it was – every wolf is born knowing just how to sing. 

_“Gentle Mother, Strength of Women, guide our daughters through this fray. Soothe the wrath and tame the fury. Teach us all a kinder way.”_

Their voices grew bolder, more confident, and the echo only seemed to magnify it. For the briefest of moments, Tyrion could have sworn Sansa had roused the dead Starks themselves into song. As the hymn came to an end, she reached over and grabbed his hand. She squeezed it. In their brief time as husband and wife, they’d developed a language imperceptible to all but them. This was an old and familiar message: _I’m frightened._

Tyrion squeezed her hand. _I know._ “Does anyone know the ‘Dornishman’s Wife’?”

That earned a small chuckle from the group. A few people smiled. 

“I don’t think that song’s appropriate for little ears,” Sansa said. “How about ‘The Bear and the Maiden Fair’?” 

“I know that one!” cried a child. He seized the opportunity and began: _“A bear there was, a bear, a bear!”_

Tyrion had heard the song a thousand times in a thousand different brothels. He relinquished Sansa’s hand to clap the beat. A few others joined in. The children led this song; it was a lively and jaunty tune, perfect for their reedy little voices. He stole a glance at Sansa. She clapped with the others, smiling, the picture of calm. But he could see what lay behind those eyes, nigh invisible to anyone but the most observant: bone-numbing fear. She’d gotten good at hiding it. For the briefest moment, even Tyrion was fooled. 

But she didn’t need to hide it from him. It was the people who needed her to be fearless. So fearless she would be. 

_What a queen she would have made_ , he thought. 

An eon ago he’d been merely a drunkard, and she, a naive little girl. The years and the wars had changed them both, then seen fit to reunite them here. A Lannister and a Stark, cowering in the dark, huddling together for hope. It would be funny if it weren’t so horribly sad. 

While the children sang and clapped, Tyrion’s eyes once again landed on the statue of the late Lord Eddard Stark. Was his head bowed in prayer? He thought it was. The people were good and distracted now, thanks to Sansa. With their jovial voices echoing around him, Tyrion followed Ned Stark’s example. He bowed his head. And, for the first time in his life—

Tyrion prayed.


	2. Chapter One: A Dance of Dragons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which I fix Winterfell's stupid, stupid defense strategy.

Daenerys

Winterfell stood as a beacon of light in a sea of darkness. Perched high above the keep on Drogon’s back, she could see all their hastily made defenses: the northernmost wall, illuminated with torches, pieced together by northern axemen and hauled into place by Dothraki stallions. The two teams had worked continuously since the night before until a massive wall was built in a semicircle around the northern end of the castle. They’d recruited the women and children into its construction as well; children sawed off branches and women sharpened those remaining into stakes.

Beyond that wall was a hundred and fifty meters of cleared ground where her Dothraki waited on their horses. They were easy to spot now with their flaming arakhs. She watched the lights bob and weave as their horses stamped and shuffled restlessly. Someone once told her the horses of the Dothraki loved bloodshed as much as their masters. Would they enjoy this battle as they had enjoyed the others? She doubted it. 

Another hundred meters behind them was the moat. It was as deep as her dragons were tall and nearly ten meters wide. Most of their manpower had been poured into its formation and the fortifications around it. When it was nearly finished, Tyrion had ordered all the coal left in all the forges to be scattered among the spikes at the bottom. The flames would need plenty of fuel. 

Behind their moat were the manned fortifications. Here the Unsullied had the gangplanks ready to dispatch should the Dothraki need to retreat. On the walls of Winterfell itself were the archers, the artillery, and their reserve soldiers. A second, smaller trench hugged the keep. That one would be lit by the men themselves, should the worst happen. She could see them standing ready with their torches, gazing out into the blackness.

“Will it be enough?” she asked. She gripped Drogon’s spines. The cold bit into her hands, but warmth flowed off him like a furnace. 

“It’ll have to be,” Jon said. He still looked so uncertain sitting atop Rhaegal, as though he feared the dragon might suddenly turn on him. Or perhaps it was just the knowledge of the impending battle weighing upon him. 

She shifted on Drogon’s back. It was hardly the most comfortable place in the world. But a dragon would never submit to a saddle, nor would she dream of pushing such an indignity upon any of her children. A dragon should only be ridden when it wishes to, on its own terms. Her thoughts briefly turned to poor Viserion. The memory of his fate scorched her as no flame ever would. She looked towards Jon. “Any sign?”

Jon’s eyes were fixed on the battlefield. “Not yet. When they arrive, we’ll know it.”

“I can’t see anything in that darkness,” she said. “Can you?” 

He didn’t answer. He hadn’t been able to meet her eyes since he told her the truth. Had he not looked so uncertain he might cut a regal figure. The son of Rhaegar, perched atop a dragon. Her eldest brother. Making Jon her…

Another thought that was too white-hot with pain to stomach. Dany turned her gaze back to the battlefield. Was that movement out there in the blackness? Or her eyes playing tricks? And that sound on the wind—faint, but…yelling? Snarling? Screeching? 

“They’re here.” Jon shifted on Rhaegal’s back. He spread his wings. “I’ll light the wall.”

“Watch the skies,” Daenerys warned him. 

He paused. Finally, he met her eyes. His expression was unreadable. “You too.” 

Jon and Rhaegal took to the skies. She watched Rhaegal swoop down towards the edge of their primary fortification. He let out a roar that echoed through the cold night air. Then with one long breath, he lit the center of the wall. The fire jumped to life, illuminating only a fraction of the horror that lay on the other side: the dead. They slammed into the fortifications, throwing themselves against the wood. She watched Rhaegal circle and come down again, this time aiming his breath directly at the dead. His fire cut through them like a knife. He circled yet again. 

_This isn’t part of the plan_ , she thought. What could Jon see that she could not? 

Another pass, another wall of flame. She could see them better now, an ever-writhing mass pushing steadily forward. They continued to slam themselves against the wall. The wind carried the stench of burning flesh and rot. But they did not stop. They pressed on, body after body until the flames could not burn—

_Not this soon_ , she thought. _It can’t come down this soon._

Daenerys dug her heels into Drogon’s side. He unfurled his wings and with one mighty push they were in the air. Rhaegal made another pass over the dead. Jon was too busy cutting into their forces to notice the wall. She could practically hear the wood straining. On the other side the Dothraki were screaming, arakhs raised, ready for war. But in the air, Dany could see what she couldn’t before: there was no end in sight to them. They weren’t an army. They were a tidal wave. 

“DRACARYS!” 

She and Drogon passed over the wall, relighting it and hitting the spots Jon and Rhaegal had missed. The dead began to burn anew. Dany steered Drogon in a large circle to make room for the artillery’s flaming projectiles. They flew over the field like blazing comets and landed amongst the dead like stones in water. Bodies and limbs flew. And that noise, that awful screeching, chattering noise they made, grew steadily louder. They kept throwing themselves against the wall. They were heedless of the fire, even though it turned their brethren into withered black husks. 

No fear. No sympathy. Just a rampaging wall of death. 

Jon seemed content to focus on doing whatever damage he could. While he and Rhaegal made pass after pass, Dany and Drogon fought a losing battle above the wall. Each time she relit it, they would just throw themselves at it again. The center was beginning to buckle. The logs were steadily tilting inwards from the weight of a thousand bodies. 

The artillery fired another volley. Dany directed Drogon upwards to avoid getting caught in the crossfire. She scanned the sky for any sign of another dragon but saw nothing but dark clouds. They were rolling in with the dead, obscuring the stars and the light of the moon. A blast of cold air hit her at full force, chilling her to the bone despite Drogon’s warmth. 

_He’s coming._

She swooped low again to avoid getting caught in the clouds and losing her visibility. Jon went past her on Rhaegal. They managed to share the briefest of looks before he was gone again, now redirecting his attention to the wall. The center was buckling badly. The outer edges were beginning to give as the dead continued pressing onward, ever onward. Whatever damage Jon and the artillery had done to their forces had been minimal. 

_Gods help us. He's coming._

The center collapsed. The wood itself seemed to scream as it splintered and buckled under the weight of the dead. They surged forwards, clambering over the burnt bodies of their brethren still stuck to the spikes. The Dothraki were waiting. They cut down the dead as they spilled in. Their war cry grew louder now that their foe was in sight. 

It began to snow.

She felt like time began to slow. It appeared in pieces: a glimpse of a wing, a single claw raking through the clouds, a spiked tail. Then it was coming at her. His creamy white scales were dulled into gray. His beautiful golden horns were colorless. The mouth opened, blue flame bubbling from its throat—

Drogon acted before she did. He dove sharply downward, snapping her out of her trance, and just barely managed to avoid the Night King’s swooping attack. He went past her, wheeled around, and came again. Drogon was ready this time. He dodged again and banked hard to the right, spouting flame across his brother’s side. 

_No, not his brother_ , Dany thought. She gripped his spines tighter. _Not anymore._

Rhaegal roared past her and upwards. He turned his body at the last moment, locking claws with Viserion and snapping at his neck. The two dragons tumbled through the air, snapping and biting, trying to gain the upper hand. It was hard to tell who was winning. It was just a scramble of snapping teeth and scratching claws. She prayed Jon managed to hold on. 

Viserion broke away and dove down, down, until he nearly collided with the ground. At the last moment, he pulled up and banked back towards the keep. Blue flame leaped from his mouth as he swept past the castle. One of the towers buckled but did not give entirely. Dany could see the archers manning it scrambling to get down before it collapsed completely. Winterfell was meant to stand up against ice, snow, and invading men—not a dragon. She urged Drogon forward. He gave chase immediately, as though eager to fight. Rhaegal, scratched and bloodied, flew up beside them. 

“I’m going after him!” Dany shouted. “Light the trench! Protect Winterfell!” 

“What about you?!” he yelled back. 

“He can take down the whole castle with just Viserion! I’m going to make sure that doesn’t happen!” It had been her who brought Viserion into this world. She’d held him against her bare breast. If anyone was going to finish this, it would be her. “Focus on Winterfell!” 

Jon seemed to understand. He nodded. Together he and Rhaegal peeled off, banking back towards the battlefield. The dead had breached multiple parts of the wall. The Dothraki continued fighting, undeterred, though they were getting dangerously close to being overrun. Dany forced herself to look away. She had to focus on getting that abomination out of the sky, or there would be no Winterfell for her people to retreat to. 

Viserion remerged from the clouds and swooped low, headed towards Winterfell. Dany and Drogon flew to intercept him. She held on tight as Drogon slammed into his brother at full speed, sending him and the Night King tumbling through the air. Always the nimble flyer, Viserion recovered quickly and flew at them. Blue flame leaped from his jaws and scorched Drogon’s chest and neck. It should have been hot, but it was cold, so cold it burned even Dany. She gripped his spines harder and yelled, digging in her heels, urging her dragon to keep pushing. 

Drogon banked hard to the left. Viserion went right. They both opened their jaws, spewing red and blue flame at one another in a horribly beautiful flash of light. Drogon roared and slammed into Viserion, claws extended, and dug them into his brother’s marred hide. Viserion shrieked and snapped, his jaws coming dangerously close to Dany’s head. She ducked as he snapped again, spitting his icy hot blue flame, knowing the battle was now up to Drogon. He clamped on to the base of his brother’s neck, rending his claws into him, tearing flesh and scale. Viserion twisted and writhed in a desperate attempt to escape. 

But where Viserion was nimble, Drogon was strong.

He pressed his wings tight against his body. Suddenly nothing more than dead weight, he and Viserion began to drop like stones. Viserion shrieked and flapped his wings desperately. The blue flame seemed to surround Dany. Everywhere she looked was blue. Blue and bright and deadly. Out of the fire came a sword. It stabbed blindly and embedded itself in her calf. Daenerys shrieked in pain and found herself eye-to-eye with the Night King, his eyes the same color as Viserion’s horrible flame. Then he and his sword were gone, whipped away as Viserion continued to writhe and fight. 

“Drogon!” Dany shouted. They were getting dangerously close to the ground. She couldn’t even see where they would hit. In the middle of the dead? In the middle of their allies? “DROGON!” 

At the last moment, he let go, using his claws to force his brother down and propel himself upward. Viserion had no time to recover. He plummeted, roaring, and slammed into the ground. Daenerys circled. He was still moving, roaring and shrieking in what might have been anger or agony, but one of his wings was crumpled and broken. Bones jutted out at horrific angles. The Night King climbed from his back, unharmed, and stared up at Daenerys. 

“DRACARYS!” she yelled. 

Drogon was eager to obey. He dove again, spewing flame on to the Night King and his brother with impunity. When they swung back around Viserion was scorched and still. But the Night King stood there, still staring up at them. 

“DRACARYS!”

Again. She turned Drogon sharper this time, her knees digging into his sides. But still, the Night King stood. 

_“DRACARYS!”_

Angry tears rolled down her cheeks. She wanted to see him burn. Burn and suffer for what he did to her, what he did to her baby, her sweet nimble Viserion. But when they made another pass, he still stood there. She thought he was smirking. 

_It’s useless_ , she realized. Whatever magic had created him made him immune to the most destructive magic there was: dragon fire. Her poor Viserion lay still and silent. He was a charred and broken thing—but at least his suffering had ended at last. Turning her face away, she rerouted Drogon back towards the battlefield. Jon had lit the trench. It burned hot and bright, spewing black smoke into the air. The wind and snow seemed to be working against them. Instead of providing cover for the Dothraki’s retreat, the smoke merely obscured the dead even further. She watched as a rotting giant lifted a shrieking stallion into the air and tossed it aside like a doll. Its rider hit the ground and rolled. Unable to move or get away, the dead were on him in an instant. 

The gangplanks, coated in sheets of iron so they would not catch, were lowered across the moat. The Dothraki and their horses began to retreat. 

There was no end in sight to the dead. Their hastily built wall was now almost completely flattened. Even as Jon and Rhaegal worked to stop their advice with walls of fire, they simply threw themselves on it until more dead could trample over them and continue advancing. In all her years of conquest, Dany had never met a foe that couldn’t be destroyed by her dragons. 

Until now.


End file.
